


Girls' Night

by koritsimou



Series: To find more [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, M/M, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 14:31:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5747929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koritsimou/pseuds/koritsimou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The text is from Cosette:<br/><br/><i>Girls’ Night. Eponine punched another skeevy douchebag and has sworn off men forever, again. Delightful and entirely-uninterested-in-hitting-on-her guys do not apply, of course, so you’re invited. Ep’s got herself a month’s ban from Aypa for her trouble, but Chetta suggested Minted? I’ve never been. Predrinking at mine. xx</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Girls' Night

It happens so quickly; a hand on his arm, a fist to the face.

 

**Seven hours earlier**

 

Christmas lights have begun to crop up in the windows of some of the city’s especially keen residents when Jehan gets an “emergency night out needed” text from Cosette. Jehan himself has been wearing Christmas sweaters regularly since December 1st. This is the first year he’s not had December exams and he is fully committed to the festive season.

 _Well this is spectacularly overdue_ , Jehan texts back. _What’s the plan?_

_Girls’ Night. Eponine punched another skeevy douchebag and has sworn off men forever, again. Delightful and entirely-uninterested-in-hitting-on-her guys do not apply, of course, so you’re invited. Ep’s got herself a month’s ban from Aypa for her trouble, but Chetta suggested Minted? I’ve never been. Predrinking at mine. xx_

As he does each time the invite rolls in, Jehan takes a moment to sound out whether it bothers him that he is included in Girls’ Night; it doesn’t. Cosette is a darling, Eponine - though he still doesn’t feel he knows her very well - has a scathing wit Jehan greatly enjoys, and there is literally no one he enjoys dancing with as much as Musichetta.

There is frost on the doorstep when Jehan reaches his close. He glances up at the dark sky as he lets himself in and wonders if tonight they will get the snow the news has been promising all week. As he trots up the stairs to his flat, Jehan texts Cosette back, seconding Musichetta’s suggestion. Minted is nice - the music whatever’s popular, the drinks maybe on the more expensive side for a student-y place, but not excessively so - and as a gay bar, a night free of harassment is significantly more plausible, which is bound to sell it to Cosette.

There’s a clatter as his key pushes another free from the lock.

“For God’s sake, Parn,” Jehan calls out, as the door drags the fallen keys across the floor, “the key rack will not steal your soul if you deign to use it.” He unravels his long scarf in the doorway of the living room, pulls off his bobble hat and throws the latter at his boyfriend’s head.

“If you learn to hang up your keys I promise I won’t tell anyone, so there is absolutely no risk to your reputation. No one need know you’re actually domesticated,” Jehan bargains with a smirk as he slides onto the sofa beside Montparnasse.

He twists the ends of his scarf around his hands as Parnasse taps at a few keys on his laptop, before dumping it on the coffee table and turning to Jehan. He grabs a fistful of Jehan’s scarf and reels him in with it for a kiss, then releases him just as quickly.

“I could bend you over this couch right now,” he promises, in Jehan’s ear. “Take you fast and rough, like the animal you think I’m not.” Jehan feels a shiver cross his skin and reaches out to bury a hand in Parnasse’s hair. “But...”

“But?” Jehan questions.

Parnasse drops his wild expression and looks a little embarrassed when he admits, “I made dinner.”

“Oh my god,” Jehan’s laugh bubbles out of him. “So domesticated.” He leans forward and kisses the end of Parnasse’s nose, who frowns unhappily. “But maybe you can disprove that later?” Jehan adds, hopefully.

“Would that I could. I will,” Parnasse promises. “But not tonight. Duty calls.”

“Hmph.” Jehan kisses him again, lightly, then turns and slouches against Parnasse’s side. “You should come meet us later, after you finish. Girls’ night. We’ll be in Minted ‘til closing, no doubt.”

“Ah, so you were planning on abandoning me all- wait, girls night?” Parnasse interrupts himself. “Jehan, you are not a girl. Of that, I am very sure,” he says with a leer.

“Gender is not determined by one’s genitals,” Jehan reprimands, with a light punch to Parnasse’s arm. “Nor who you choose to mash them with.”

Parnasse looks surprised for a moment, then gradually alarmed. “I didn’t mean-- Are- You never said-” Jehan watches him curiously.

“Have I been using the wrong pronouns this whole time?” Parnasse asks, finally. “You could have said something.”

Jehan smiles and says, “That was remarkably calm for someone who thinks they just realised their boyfriend is their girlfriend. It was also an entirely unnecessary faux realisation. I’m definitely a boy.”

Parnasse is blushing, Jehan notes delightedly. “Though you’re not the first person to have had some confusion,” Jehan admits. “Usually happens before they try and sleep with me, though,” Jehan says, finding it difficult not to laugh.

“I wasn’t confused,” Parnasse defends himself. “I was trying to be... supportive.”

“You were very respectful,” Jehan says warmly. “ _Were_ I a girl, I’m sure I’d be thrilled - though perhaps not that it took you so long to notice.”

“You do wear girl’s clothes,” Parnasse says, like perhaps he should have considered it sooner.

“I’m a boy, thus the clothes I wear are boy’s clothes,” Jehan says like it’s a concept he’s had to explain before.

“You’re a man,” Parnasse corrects. “And you definitely own women's’ leggings.”

“Clothes don’t have a gender.”

“And women’s jeans, I think,” Parnasse adds.

“You are far too familiar with my wardrobe.”

“I undress you a lot.” Parnasse’s smirk is fleeting. He looks at Jehan appraisingly and adds, “Though I wish you let me dress you as often.”

 

They have dinner in the bedroom. Montparnasse getting garlic bread crumbs on the bed, as Jehan twirls pasta around his fork whilst perusing his closet.

“What about this?” Jehans asks, holding out a shirt. “With my dark jeans.”

“No,” Parnasse says after a glance. It’s the third outfit he’s shot down.

“Why? You like this shirt. I know you do - you let me buy it,” Jehan reminds him.

“Yeah, it looks good on you. Who would you be wearing it for?”

Jehan laughs brightly at the jealousy souring Montparnasse’s opinion of each outfit. “I told you, you should come meet us after.”

“Doubt I’ll be done before the clubs let out,” Parnasse says with regret that warms Jehan.

Later, after he has hindered more than helped Jehan dress, Parnasse walks Jehan to Cosette’s.

The promised snow has materialised. Fat flakes cling to one sleeve of the thick black coat Parnasse insisted Jehan borrow, “because the only snow suitable coat you own is probably bright yellow and hideous”. It leaves Parnasse in just a blazer, so Jehan makes him carry an umbrella. They press close underneath it, a blue polkadot number that Jehan assured Montparnasse was his most sedately patterned brolly. It has ruffles.

There’s a van at the far end of Cosette’s otherwise deserted street that makes Jehan feel uneasy. It's lights are on, Jehan notes. It is idling.

Parnasse walks Jehan to the door, even up the first few steps that lead to it. He puts Jehan’s umbrella down and presses it into his hands. “You should keep it, for the walk home,”Jehan tells him.

Parnasse shakes his head. “I won’t need it.”

Jehan, on the top step, is protected from the falling snow by Cosette’s building. Parnasse stops a step lower and has snowflakes in his hair in seconds. It makes a very beautiful winter picture; the snow bright against his dark hair, his cheeks pink from the cold. It also makes them the same height, a rarity. 

“The snow will soak through your jacket,” Jehan says. “And you look cold already.”

“I’m not going far,” Parnasse argues.

Jehan huffs, but relents and leans his umbrella against the door to Cosette’s close. 

He wraps his arms around Montparnasse’s shoulders and squirms in close. Jehan had wondered if his face was as cold as it looked, and pressed against his cheek, it is. He can feel Parnasse’s breath warm against his neck as his arms encircle Jehan. “Thank you for walking me,” Jehan says quietly, right into his ear.

Jehan leans back to smile at the man in his arms. He feels a snowflake land on his nose as Montparnasse’s lips brush his. His face was cold, but his mouth is warm and inviting.

You’re welcome. Parnasse doesn’t say it, but Jehan feels it.

When they part, there is a snowflake in Parnasse’s eyelashes. He starts to blink it away, but Jehan plants a mitten covered hand on either side of his face and says, “Close your eyes.”

Parnasse does as bid and Jehan kisses the top his cheek to melt it away. He kisses the other cheek for symmetry. Then his forehead because he can’t usually reach so high. 

“Jehan,” Parnasse warns. “I need to g-” Jehan cuts him off with a final kiss.

“Okay, now you can go. Have a good night at work.”

Parnasse doesn’t wish him a nice night, or ask him to pass on a hello to his friends, but he has a small smile as he nods at Jehan’s goodbye.

“Wait,” Jehan says. Parnasse stops, tilting his head in question. Jehan unwinds his scarf and wraps it around Parnasse’s neck. “Don’t lose it. It matches my mittens. And go back the way we came, will you? I don’t like the look of that van.”

His eyes flick to the end of the street, where the van still sits, and back to Parnasse. Parnasse’s grin is sharp and amused.

“I know, I know. You can take care of yourself. I don’t need to worry about you. Just indulge me. Please.”

Parnasse’s smile softens just a little, and there’s a laugh in his voice as he says, “Jehan, that’s my lift.”

“Oh. Well, tell them they should cut the engine next time. Less creepy and better for the environment. Plus they’re wasting money. They must know you can’t possibly go to work until you have been kissed a suitable number of times.”

Jehan pulls Parnasse in by his own scarf and wonders if any of the men waiting can see them on the doorstep perch, lit by the streetlights, or if they’re hidden by the falling snow. He kisses Parnasse, long and deep, feeling just a little possessive.

“Quota met?” Parnasse asks hoarsely, when Jehan releases him.

“Mm hm,” Jehan says happily. “See you later.”

He wishes he could flounce off immediately, leave Parnasse on the doorstep, missing his touch. But he has to press the buzzer and wait for the door to click unlocked. Parnasse reaches around him to lift his umbrella, returns it to Jehan’s hands. 

“Thanks. Ar-”

“I’m sure I don’t want it,” Parnasse confirms. He waits ‘til Cosette buzzes Jehan up, before returning to the street and heading for the van.

Jehan watches the snow coat his head and shoulders from the doorway but turns for the stairs before he reaches the van. He doesn’t see if Parnasse looks back or not.

Upstairs, Jehan’s arrival is met with a chorus of loud, happy greetings. They have started without him.

“Jehan’s here!” Cosette crows a second time, ushering him into the living area. Cosette’s flat is small; just the bedroom and bathroom, with everything else contained in one open space. The four of them practically fill it. Eponine is stretched out on the sofa, painting her toenails. Musichetta has one false eyelash halfway to her face. There’s an empty bottle of wine on the coffee table, another beside it is less than half full.

“Yes, he is,” Eponine agrees, amused. She has a significantly higher tolerance than their hostess.

“We’re still getting ready,” Musichetta says apologetically. “Nice coat,” she adds.

“Isn’t it?” Cosette gushes. “It feels amazing.” She strokes his arm once before dropping it. “I’ll get you a glass.”

Eponine gives him careful assessment over the back of the couch. “That is the nicest thing I’ve ever seen you wearing.”

“It’s borrowed,” Jehan says, shrugging it off.

“I figured.” Eponine turns back to her toes.

Cosette swaps Jehan a wine glass for his coat, and slips into the hall to hang it up. “It’s bloody Italian cashmere,” she shouts towards the room, impressed. “Who the hell did you borrow it from, the Queen?”

“Yes,” Eponine says. “He borrowed a man’s coat from the Queen. Spot on, Cosy.”

“Oh, shut up,” Cosette says as Jehan pours himself a glass of rosé. “Whatever his name is then, the Duke of Husband.”

Musichetta laughs richly. “Phillip, his name is Phillip.”

“To the Duke of Phillip,” Jehan raises his glass. Musichetta and Cosette laugh and Eponine smiles as she lifts her own wine. “To Phil.”

“Jehan, will you braid my hair?” Cosette asks hopefully.

 

They don’t make it to the club until a little after midnight, but there’s still a queue at the door.

The snow has stopped but the gaggle of merrymakers backlit by the entrance are still inappropriately dressed for the weather. They seem unphased. Gesturing to the sign above her, a girl in a short sequined skirt tells her friend, “It used to be a bank.”

“And?” her friend asks, vacantly. Someone laughs. Jehan can’t tell if they are all together. “What?” the confused girl challenges.

“ _Minted_ ,” the first girl stresses, as Jehan and the girls fall into place behind her.

“Leave it, Mhairi,” a boy whose ID is almost certainly getting challenged tonight says. “She was trying to match drinks with Ravi earlier.”

The other boy smirks at the mention of his name, but says nothing. He towers over his friends and reminds Jehan of Combeferre a little. The group’s chatter keeps Jehan entertained while the queue shuffles slowly forward.

As soon as they’ve deposited their coats in the cloakroom, Eponine makes a beeline for the bar, dragging Cosette along with her. Musichetta laughs at them and asks Jehan what he’s drinking.

“Jack and coke,” he tells her as they follow the other girls.

Musichetta puts her height to use as she passes their drink order over the heads of the crowd to Eponine and Cosette, who have made it to the front. 

“How does she do that?” Jehan asks.

“How does who do what?” Chetta asks above him.

“Eponine, and that,” Jehan answers, waving a hand to where Eponine is ordering.

“Ah, yes,” Chetta intones. “Little Eponine can move in and out of any room or crowd unnoticed.” 

“It’s like a superpower,” Jehan marvels.

“She is a cat burglar,” Musichetta agrees, and Jehan wonders if she is thinking of Catwoman, meant to say ‘like a cat burglar’, or if she perhaps knows more of Eponine’s past than Jehan does.

A glass is being pressed into Jehan’s hands as Eponine reappears at his side. “Jack for Jean,” she says, smiling. Cosette passes over Musichetta’s drink and together the four of them toast their evening.

“To friends.”  
“To nights off.”  
“To nights out.”  
“To Prince Philip.”

Eponine drains half her glass in one gulp, and despite their similar size Jehan knows he should not try to keep pace. He takes a sip and feels warm despite the cold trickle down his throat. 

Cosette wraps an arm around Jehan’s waist and squeezes. “I’m glad you came tonight,” she says happily.

“Me too,” Jehan says honestly.

“I feel like we haven’t seen you in ages.”

Cosette doesn’t say it like a reprimand, but Jehan hears it as one. He has seen the group less since he started seeing Montparnasse. He definitely remembers missing a movie night at Courfeyrac and Marius’ place because Parnasse wasn’t working, though he used coursework as his excuse. In fact, he realises, he hasn’t been in Courfeyrac and Marius’ flat in over a month.

“I know,” Jehan agrees, mournfully. “I feel like I’m drowning in uni work-” _and lies_ , Jehan thinks, as Cosette nods furiously. “But Christmas holidays soon.”

“Yes,” Cosette says with relief. “Are you going home?”

“Yeah, and then to my grandmother’s. But we’re all coming back for new year, I think.”

“Yeah, I think so. I’m taking Marius home for Christmas,” Cosette tells him, delighted. “He’s so nervous, but I have no idea why. He’s already met dad. Dad likes him. It’s going to be fine. But there’s no telling Marius that.”

Jehan laughs. “He does enjoy a good fret.”

Their conversation ends when Eponine knocks back the last of her drink and slaps it down on the nearest table, startling the three boys standing around it. 

“And now, we dance,” she says, with a wicked smile.

And they do. 

Jehan loves dancing, and the alcohol only makes it easier. He feels light and free, even pressed up against the hot heaving masses on the dance floor. Cosette grabs Eponine by the hands and twirls around with her. Musichetta has her hands over her head and moves to the music like a trained dancer. She has more rhythm in her little toe than Jehan has in his whole body, but when it comes to enjoyment they are equally matched.

The songs blur into one another; Jehan only recognises an odd few. He grinds with Musichetta to something with lots of low thumping bass, making a rare mixed gender partnering on the floor. He thrashes around with Eponine to a scene kid classic he remembers from his teens, and dances gladly with a drunk girl who makes a declaration of love for his shoes.

After an easy guaranteed sing-a-long hit, that fills the room with chanting, the DJ spins seamlessly into something more melodic. Musichetta pulls Cosette into a ballroom pose. There is little space, but they make the most of it, as Musichetta leads the smaller girl around the floor.

Cosette chose the right dress for it. It gathers flatteringly at her waist, yet there is a surprising amount of fabric in the skirt, which fans out dramatically as Musichetta spins her. Some of their fellow dancers pause to watch.

“Give me a hand with drinks, will you?” Eponine asks.

Jehan leaves Cosette and Musichetta to their spectacle at the centre of the dance floor and follows Eponine’s expertly woven path through the sea of bodies to the bar.

“Okay,” Eponine starts after she somehow squeezes them both into a space at the bar that moments ago did not exist. “Chetta and I have come to the fabulous and inevitable decision of shots.”

“Can’t we just get a regular round?” Jehan asks, as he tries to guess which member of bar staff will serve them.

“Of course, we can,” Eponine agrees. “But also shots.”

She looks delighted and carefree, and it has Jehan agreeing somewhat less enthusiastically, “Shots.”

“Oh, barman with the floofy hair is handing over change. You’re up. Get on your tiptoes and flash him a smile.”

Jehan clocks the bartender Eponine means and shakes his head. “You’re up. Take your own advice.”

“What?”

“The one with the eyes is definitely straight.”

“How d’you kn- What’s wrong with his eyes?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Jehan says, honestly.

“What can I get for you?” the bartender asks cheerfully, bright blue eyes fixed on Eponine.

Eponine stares back, saying nothing. Jehan understands. “Two vodka cokes, a gin and tonic, and a jack and coke,” Jehan rhymes off. “And four shots of something terrible, no doubt.”

This snaps Eponine from her reverie. “Hey,” she cries, shoving his arm. “Lies and slander.”

She picks something bright green and slides the first shot poured to Jehan, before repeating their drinks order a little more sedately. If she changed hers to a cocktail just to slow things further, Jehan would only congratulate her quick-thinking.

Jehan downs the shot and replaces the glass on the bar. When he pushes his hair back from his face, there is someone new beside him.

He’s big, taller and broader than Jehan. He’s built like Joshua was, and Jehan is almost drunk enough to ask the guy if he knows him, but not quite. People don’t meet each other based on having a similar body shape.

Though he’s standing at the bar, the guy is angled towards Jehan and his attention is not on the bar staff. Jehan looks away.

If he played rugby, he could know Joshua, Jehan thinks. He glances at the guy again. He smiles down at Jehan. His teeth are even and straight, and his ears are the same size. He probably doesn’t play rugby.

“Can I buy you a drink?” the smiling stranger asks.

“Um, no thanks,” Jehan says, with a sidestep disguised as a reach for the cocktail menu. “I’m just here to dance with my friends. But thanks.”

He doesn’t look back up from the menu, but the guy hovers.

“That’s cool. Can I talk to you for five minutes while you buy your own drink, so my flatmate can chat up your friend?”

“Oh.” Jehan laughs. “While I’m not wholly sure that’s a great idea, I guess they can try. Fair warning, she’s a bit scrappy.”

The guy’s smile widens. “I’d pass that along, but my duty is here.”

“Yeah, sorry about, I didn’t know-”

“No, that’s alright. I get it. You don’t need to apologise,” the guy cuts him off. “I’m Dan.”

“Jean.”

“Nice accent,” Dan comments.

“Thanks.”

“You a student here?”

Jehan nods.

“A year abroad kind of thing, yeah?”

“No, I’m doing the whole thing here. Might stay after, too. Haven’t decided yet.”

Jehan has learned that Dan is a third year history student, moved to the city for university but is from only a few towns outside of it originally, and met his flatmate when they were both test subjects for a mutual friend’s psychology coursework, when Eponine bumps up against him meaningfully.

“We are gonna go dance,” she says, as the girl behind her gives Dan an unsubtle thumbs up. “And Mae’s gonna help me carry the drinks, so don’t worry, you take your time here.”

The girls collect their glasses from the bar and wind off into the crowd.

“Eponine,” Jehan calls, “one of those is... mine.”

Jehan sighs, and leans back against the bar. He didn’t notice getting turned around - Dan isn’t even really at the bar anymore, and Jehan has his back to it, facing him. It makes sense though; they were taking up precious space at a bar people are fighting to reach.

“Now can I buy you a drink?” Dan asks.

Dan is attractive, Jehan thinks, but he knows it. And not in the lazy way that Parnasse is and knows it; where with a look he’ll let you know he knows you think so, but is in no hurry to do anything about it. Dan is in a hurry to do something about it. He’s attractive and he knows it in a demanding kind of way.

“I thought you were here as a wingman. I think your job is done,” Jehan says, politely.

Dan shrugs. “If I let Mae think it’s a hardship, then she owes me one. But let’s be honest, this,” he gestures between them, “is no hardship.”

Let’s, Jehan agrees. “There is no this,” Jehan says, repeating the gesture. “I have a boyfriend.”

“Is he hot?”

“Extremely.” Jehan takes a step forward on the word, trying to force Dan to move back. Dan doesn’t move.

“Is he here?” Dan asks, closer now.

Jehan tries to take a step back, but the gap he left at the bar has quickly been filled. “I told you, I’m just here to dance with my friends.”

“Come on, Jean. It’s just one drink. And I’m the reason you lost your last one,” Dan says reasonably, exuding friendly goodwill.

“No, thank you,” he says firmly.

“What are you drinking?” Dan asks. He gives Jehan a sad puppydog smile, and wraps a hand around his arm, just above the elbow. “One drink.”

Jehan pulls his arm away and from nowhere, a fist cracks across the side of Dan’s face. He goes down like the proverbial ton of bricks.

Like the bricks of the shithouse he is built like, Jehan’s swimming mind offers, a confused mangling of one of the city’s more colourful expressions.

Immediately a space has emptied around them, other patrons moving a safe distance away to watch the scene unfold. Upon this cleared battlefield are only Jehan, the felled mountain that was Dan, and Montparnasse.

For a fraction of a second Jehan is delighted that he made it, then his brain catches up with his eyes and recognises that Parnasse is attached to the fist that just connected with Dan’s face.

Jehan is vaguely aware that he is yelling. He can only hear Parnasse over his own voice because he is yelling too.

“I didn’t hear you ask if you could touch him,” Parnasse is shrieking at the man on the floor.

“Oh my god,” Jehan cries, heart racing. “What the hell are you doing?” he demands.

“I didn’t hear him say you could,” Parnasse continues his loud lecture.

“Parnasse, stop,” Jehan pleads.

“The next time you lay a hand on someone without their consent, you remember what it felt like when I laid a hand on you without yours, you piece of shit.”

Parnasse punctuates his lesson with a kick to the floored man’s ribs. It’s only when he’s finished that his eyes find Jehan’s. It’s only then that a flash of fear crosses Montparnasse’s face. He’s changed his clothes, but he’s still wearing Jehan’s long green scarf.

A bouncer crashes into their circle of space and grabs Parnasse by the shoulders. He quickly pulls free, muttering, “Alright, I’m going.” The sea of spectators parts before him, and he heads straight for the exit, the bouncer marching along behind him.

“Oh my god,” a girl cries from behind Jehan. “Dan!” Mae dashes to his side.

The crowd starts to disperse, the action presumed over.

“What the hell did you do, you little bitch?” Mae screams at Jehan.

“Watch your fucking mouth,” Eponine yells back.

“He didn’t do anything. There was another guy,” a bystander speaks up.

Jehan ignores all of it and tries to slip out of Cosette’s hug to head for the door.

“Eponine, could you take Jehan outside for some air. Please.” Cosette instructs, rather than asks.

“The bar will have to fill out an incident report,” Musichetta murmurs. “I’ll find out what happened.”

“Eponine,” Cosette says again.

“Yeah, I got him,” she replies, giving up glaring at Mae to stalk after Jehan.

As soon as they get their hands stamped as smokers, Jehan marches off down the street to where Montparnasse leans against a railing, waiting. Eponine lets him go and busies herself trying to bum a smoke off someone in the cluster of people at the side of the building. Montparnasse straightens up when Jehan reaches him, but says nothing.

“What the hell was that?” Jehan challenges him without preamble. Parnasse doesn't respond. “Are you gonna start attacking every guy who talks to me?”

Jehan knows he is guilty of indulging Parnasse’s jealousy sometimes, that on some level he enjoys it. But there was nothing enjoyable about what just happened. 

“He wasn’t talking to you, he was harassing you,” Montparnasse states calmly.

“You almost knocked him out!” Jehan cries. He has to know his response wasn’t proportional, Jehan thinks. He has to know that wasn’t okay.

“S’not my problem the guy doesn’t know how to take a punch.” 

Jehan cannot detect a hint of the remorse he is desperate to hear. The night air feels suddenly oppressive around him, despite the cool quiet of the wide street. Jehan closes his eyes. They were right. He can picture Courfeyrac’s face, can hear his voice condemning, “he’s dangerous”. Jehan takes a deep breath.

He opens his eyes and pushes words out of him. “It’s a little difficult to take a punch you can’t see coming.”

“The guy was an asshole. Asshole’s should always see a punch coming.” It’s a flippant remark. In another context Jehan could laugh, agree even; in this one, Jehan has no response. “Would you rather I’d asked him to step outside? Proposed a gentleman’s duel?” Montparnasse asks.

If he cared about Jehan’s opinion he could have asked first, thrown punches second. Jehan mixes his disappointment with his anger and forces all of it into the words: “I’d rather you didn’t floor a perfect stranger and kick him when he’s down because he dared touch me.”

“This isn’t some possessive bullshit, Jehan. The guy was a dick. He was a dick to you.”

“Yeah, he was. But I can handle a dick. I had it covered.” Jehan flushes when he realises what he’s said, but testament to how angry they both are, not a flicker of amusement crosses either of their faces at his words. Jehan crosses his arms. “I don’t need a knight in shining leather.”

They stare at each other for a long minute before Montparnasse forces a casual shrug and leans back against the railing behind him. He lights a cigarette, takes a long drag and exhales. “I’m no prince charming. You knew that from the off.” He sounds cool and detached, and it hurts; even though Jehan watched his hands shake as he lit the cigarette, and can see the tension in his shoulders; even though Parnasse can’t meet his eye as he says it, it hurts.

Jehan feels suddenly exhausted.

“I think you should go,” he says. “We need to talk, but not now, I don’t want to do this now. Just go home, Parn.”

Parnasse nods and pushes off from the railing, but then he hovers.

“I’ll see you later?” he asks, unsure. 

Jehan wants to touch him. He keeps his arms crossed and says, “Yeah. We’ll talk later.”

Parnasse takes a step toward Jehan, before he backs off again, nodding, and heads down the street.

Eponine isn’t still outside when Jehan returns to the club. He slips back in and heads for the cloakroom, more than ready to go home himself. Eponine is waiting for him there.

“I would have had your coat ready for you, but my perfectly accurate description of “the most expensive coat in there” was extremely suspicious without your ticket,” she says.

Jehan gives her a fleeting smile and produces said ticket. He collects the long black coat and is enveloped in Montparnasse’s scent when he slips it on. Jehan sighs.

“I told Cosette that we’re leaving,” Eponine says.

“Thanks,” Jehan says, grateful. “But you don’t need to cut your night short.”

“I know. But I have drank and danced my fill. My liver will thank me for leaving now,” Eponine says. She does look ready to leave, though Jehan suspects it’s other people that she has really had her fill of. “Plus, if we leave now we’ll beat the taxi queues.”

When they get outside Jehan asks Eponine if she minds the walk. He doesn’t feel ready to be home alone in ten minutes. Eponine acquiesces.

They pass scattered groups of revellers, moving from one club to the next, but for the most part the street is fairly quiet. There are few cars on the road that aren’t taxis, and the city’s usual buskers and beggars have moved on for the night.

The quiet crunch of the snow makes their steps feel heavier, as if weighted with some kind of importance. Jehan tucks his mittened hands in his pockets and misses his scarf. He frowns. He can’t believe this has happened. And yet, he has the horrible suspicion that no one else is the least surprised.

Joly and Bossuet will know in the morning, if not before. Marius soon too, Jehan thinks. Which is effectively the same as telling Courfeyrac. While normally a terrible gossip, Courfeyrac probably won’t want to cross any lines after their last discussion of Jehan’s choice of partner. He’ll tell Combeferre at most. Joly, however, will likely retell Musichetta’s story for Bahorel and Grantaire, Feuilly too if he is around. Grantaire tells Enjolras and everyone in their circle knows by lunch tomorrow.

Will anyone be surprised? Jehan knows Montparnasse has a reputation. He knows he has done little to uncover the truth of that reputation.

He’s never pushed to know what he does for a living, what calls him to “work” in the small hours. It’s more than likely unsavoury and deep down Jehan knows he doesn’t want to know how bad it really is.

He has only seen Montparnasse’s apartment once, and has never stayed there. Over and over again he has accepted Montparnasse’s excuse that Jehan would be more comfortable at his own place; has let him keep their relationship in its place, like the jackets he hangs up carefully, the shoes he always puts away.

He’s never slept in Montparnasse’s bed and yet Jehan gave him a _key_. He feels like an idiot.

He fell too hard, too fast, again. And for a boy who takes what he wants, but for whom the wishes of anyone else mean nothing. For a boy who punched someone for talking to him.

For a boy who made him dinner. For a boy who buys Jehan sweaters he thinks are ugly because Jehan will like them. For a boy who makes him feel special. 

For a boy who kicks someone in the ribs to make a point.

“This is so cliche,” Jehan mutters, wrapping his arms more tightly around himself.

“I guess originality wasn’t what Parnasse was aiming for,” Eponine comments from a few feet behind him where she is still following him home.

Slush washes over Jehan’s shoes, soaking into the tapestry finish, when he abruptly turns to face Eponine. “No, what he was aiming for was that poor guy’s face!” Jehan yells.

Eponine stops when Jehan does. She has her hands stuffed into her coat pockets and the tip of her nose is red. For a moment she says nothing, then softly, “Yeah.”

It’s only when she speaks that Jehan realises he was shouting. “Oh my gosh, I’m sorry. I wasn’t- I didn’t mean to yell at you. I’m just...”

“Angry,” Eponine finishes for him.

“Yeah,” Jehan sighs. “But not at you.”

“I know.”

“Still, I’m sorry. You’re walking me home in the snow because I wanted to walk and I’m yelling at you. I’ve totally ruined your night. I’ve ruined everyone’s night.”

Eponine frowns and shakes her head. “Cosette will worry, but once she knows you’re home ‘Chetta will be able to take her mind off it. And you didn’t ruin anything. This wasn’t your fault. None of it.”

Jehan gives her a weak smile. “The walking in the snow?”

“Do I wish you’d let me put you in a taxi? Yeah. But I get it. Fresh air, space to think or whatever. I get it.”

“Thanks, Eponine.” She nods, and Jehan tries, “I could walk the rest of the way myself, you could get a taxi back to-”

“And miss this lovely brisk weather?” Eponine cuts him off. “Nah. I’m pretty close to not being able to feel my feet, and after that it’s not like I can get any colder. What’s another twenty minutes?”

She’s doing this for Cosette, he knows, but his voice is soft with gratitude when he asks, “You sure?”

“Yes. But I wasn’t kidding about the numbness. Shall we?”

Jehan strips off one of his green mittens and hands it to her. “Here.”

She slips her hands free from her pockets to take it. “Um, what am I-”

“Put it on your right hand,” Jehan instructs. She does. Jehan circles around to her side and carefully takes her bare left hand in his right. “I can’t do anything about your feet, but...”

“You could offer me your shoes,” Eponine says with a quick grin, “but I’d rather lose a few toes to frostbite than wear them.”

Jehan glances down at them and back up at Eponine. She laughs at whatever his face is doing, and stuffs their joined hands into her coat pocket. “Come on.” She tugs him to start walking again.

After another few blocks, Eponine quietly asks, “Do you wanna talk about it?” surprising Jehan.  
“I know we don’t really know each other, but I know Montparnasse and I know most of your friends don’t so much, so just, if you did, that’s okay. I’ll listen. And even try not to interject too much.”

“Uh, thanks, Eponine.” It’s kind of her to offer, but Jehan isn’t ready to give voice to the humiliation he’s feeling. “I don’t think I would really know what to say yet. I need to get things straight in my head first, I think. But thanks.”

“Yeah. No problem,” Eponine says easily.

“But after I do, I might want to take you up on that. I don’t know yet.”

“Don’t worry. There’s not like an expiry date on the offer.”

Jehan smiles at her, and grips her hand a little tighter in her pocket. The rest of their walk is silent, until they reach Jehan’s street.

“Heads up, Prouvaire.”

“What?”

“You’re the second up on the right, right?” Eponine says, gesturing to the windows of Jehan’s building. “Unless you left a light on, he’s here.”

Jehan glances up and sure enough, she’s right. “How did you even notice that?”

Eponine shrugs. “D’you want me to come up with you? I can get rid of him for you, if you want.”

“No, that’s okay. But come up and call a taxi. I’m sure we can postpone our fight ‘til after you get picked up,” Jehan says, wearily.

Eponine shakes her head. “I’ve made it this far, I can soldier on ‘til I’m home.”

“No, Eponine, it’s late and it’s cold-”

“And so I’ll be swift. I’ll be fine, Jehan. Home in no time.”

Jehan frowns, but relents. He tugs off his mitten and thrusts it at her. “Fine, but you have to take this, and you have to text me to let me know you’re home.”

“Done,” Eponine says, pulling on the second mitten. “Goodnight, Jehan.”

She is disappearing down the lane beside Jehan’s building, when he calls out, “Do you even have my number?”

She doesn’t answer, and Jehan is contemplating going after her when she suddenly reappears at his side. “I’ll get it from Cosette,” she says, making Jehan jump. She smirks and melts back into the darkness.

Jehan shakes his head and let’s himself inside. Two flights up, Jehan’s front door is already unlocked when he slides his key into it. There is a light on in the living room but the room is empty. He turns it off and heads to his bedroom.

Montparnasse is outlined by the streetlight outside, the only other light in the room from the tip of his cigarette. He has pulled the desk chair to the window, where he sits, smoking out of it and scratching at the tattoo on his wrist.

The sight adds weight to Jehan’s already heavy heart. “I didn’t expect you to be here,” he says, tired.

Montparnasse only looks up when Jehan speaks. Jehan turns on his bedside lamp and sees him frown, confused. “You told me to go home.”

Jehan feels a physical ache at his words. He wants so desperately to kiss him; to throw himself into Parnasse’s arms and kiss him until he can’t breathe. But he steels himself and-

Parnasse speaks first, his face falling. “You didn’t mean here.”

“No,” Jehan says, very quietly.

“I should- I’ll go. I’m sorry, I didn’t... I’ll go,” Parnasse mutters. He stubs his cigarette out on the windowsill and jumps to his feet. He’s always so worldly and sure of himself, it is usually impossible to remember that Parnasse is actually younger than him, but in this moment it has never seemed so obvious.

“Should I- D’you want me to leave the keys?” he asks as he pushes the window closed. Jehan’s heart constricts and tears spring at the corners of his eyes. ‘Your keys,’ he wants to shout, ‘not the keys.’

“I’ll hang them up,” Parnasse says and something in Jehan breaks. He tries to laugh, but it comes out as a sob.

“Jehan,” Parnasse says softly, stepping towards him.

He stills seems unsure, but this time Jehan doesn’t let him back away. 

Jehan goes to him. He misjudges the distance but Parnasse’s hands land on his waist to steady him as he collides with him. Jehan doesn’t pause but reaches up to cup the back of Parnasse’s head and drags him into a desperate kiss.

Parnasse’s lips part, maybe with surprise, but Jehan takes it as an invitation. He licks deep into his mouth and tries to pull him even closer. Jehan’s lungs felt tight, like he couldn’t breathe until he kissed Parnasse, but paradoxically he needs to let him go to actually respire.

“I’m still angry with you,” Jehan says breathlessly, his eyes tightly closed. He buries his face in Parnasse’s neck and breathes him in, cigarette smoke, sweat, and the faint remains of his favoured peppery floral cologne.

“Okay,” Montparnasse acknowledges. He moves his hands from Jehan’s waist and wraps his arms around him, tight. Jehan feels him press a kiss to the top of his head.

Jehan takes a deep breath and tries to let the tension leak out of his body. It doesn’t really work. He had readied himself for another fight and he can’t put out the fire in his veins so easily. There’s a saying about not going to bed angry, but Jehan’s sure it means to advocate not going to sleep angry.

He leans back and waits for Parnasse to meet his eye. “I don’t want you to leave the keys,” Jehan says, when he does. Parnasse nods and loosens his grip on Jehan. Jehan tightens his and kisses him once, a quick hard press of lips. “I don’t want you to leave at all.”

“Then I’m not going anywhere.”

Jehan nods sharply and steers Montparnasse to the bed. “Sit,” he instructs. “You’re too fucking tall.” 

Parnasse sits on the edge of the bed and Jehan crawls into his lap. “Better,” he growls and ducks his head to claim Parnasse’s mouth again. There’s nothing gentle in Jehan’s kisses. Parnasse brings a hand up to cup Jehan’s cheek, tries to slow things down. Jehan bites sharply on his bottom lip, sucks it into his mouth. Parnasse tries fighting back, crushes their mouths together, and Jehan responds in turn, eager and hungry.

When they break for air Jehan bites his way down Parnasse’s long pale neck and, pausing over his pulse, laps the skin there to feel it flutter against his mouth. He starts unbuttoning his own shirt.

“Jehan, how drunk are you?” Parnasse asks.

Jehan leans back and levels a steady stare at Montparnasse and says, “I have had a lot of very cold, very fresh air.”

“And a lot of alcohol,” Parnasse reminds him.

Jehan shakes his head, long hair whipping around them. He’s not disagreeing with the words, but the point. He knows he’s been drinking, but he knows his own mind too.

“I am angry,” Jehan says, and unbuttons another button. “And embarrassed.” Another button. “I am perhaps still a little tipsy.” As if to illustrate, the next button gives him a little trouble. “I remember everything that happened tonight.” An angry unbuttoning. “I know what you did.” His last button is defeated. “But I don’t want you to leave.”

Jehan sheds his shirt and jerks his head towards Parnasse. “Now take off your shirt.”

Jehan spends long minutes convincing Parnasse of his capacity to make a choice, makes clear what that choice is, with few words and fewer clothes. When there are only boxers between them, Jehan grinds their hips together hard, grin feral when Parnasse groans. Retaliation is the sharp press of Montparnasse’s teeth to his shoulder. Jehan can feel the smirk that answers his gasp.

When Parnasse flips them over and starts kissing his way down Jehan’s neck, Jehan finally gives voice to the thought he’s been unable to shake since finding Parnasse smoking at his bedroom window.

“You called this home.”

Parnasse pauses, but doesn’t look up from Jehan’s sternum. “Technically, you called this home.”

“ _I_ live here,” Jehan gasps, as Parnasse wraps his mouth around Jehan’s left nipple.

Parnasse’s teeth brush against it, sending glorious sparks down Jehan’s spine, but he pulls Parnasse back up by his hair all the same. He stares into Parnasse’s dark eyes, waiting on a response, an answer.

Parnasse closes his eyes and presses his forehead against Jehan’s. “You’re my home,” he mumbles, and kisses Jehan. Jehan returns the kiss fiercely, surging up from the pillows to claim Parnasse’s mouth.

“I want you to say that again, when you are inside me,” Jehan instructs, when they break apart. 

“Are you sure?” Montparnasse asks. Jehan knows the question is about more than whether he wants to be fucked. He hopes Parnasse realises he is asking more than that too, as he answers with a firm, “Yes.”

“I want to watch you bury yourself inside me and feel you belong there.” Jehan tells him in a tone that brokers no argument.

After a quick prep at Jehan’s impatient insistence, Parnasse grips his hips and thrusts into him. His eyelids flutter shut, dark lashes fanning out across the top of his pale cheeks. He looks like a black and white arthouse picture but for his red red mouth, that kisses Jehan messily, finding more chin than lips.

Parnasse easily finds a familiar rhythm, but Jehan needs it faster and urges him on. “Come on, come on, come on,” he murmurs, moving to meet him, driving the pace on and on.

Parnasse catches on and pulls Jehan onto his cock on this next thrust. It changes the angle just so and Jehan cannot catch the exclaimed, “fuck,” it pulls from him. “Yes,” he hisses, as Parnasse drives into him deeper than before.

“Wel-” Jehan pants, “come-” between thrusts his hips rise to meet, “home.” He's too far gone to exploit the pun he's sure is to be found there. Parnasse’s hips stutter, before finding their rhythm once more. Jehan searches his face, but his eyes don’t open. He lowers himself over Jehan, pressing their chests together. Jehan can feel his heartbeat, out of synch with his own, but fast, fast.

Usually Montparnasse has a mastery over timing, finishing Jehan just moments before himself. And although Jehan feels like he could come without a touch, tonight they are off balance. Parnasse’s climax appears to take him by surprise. Jehan blames the pace, even while Parnasse is blaming himself.

“Shit, sorry,” he breathes, continuing short increasingly erratic thrusts.

“No, it’s okay,” Jehan murmurs, sliding a hand down Parnasse’s face.

Montparnasse apologetically slides out of him, and keeps sliding, down the length of Jehan’s body. Jehan feels his breath on his stomach and slides a hand into his hair. “No, don’t,” Jehan pleads, tugging on his handful. “Come here.”

Jehan guides Parnasse’s hand to his cock and meets his eye. “Please,” he whispers.

Parnasse jerks him off and Jehan only closes his eyes when he spills over Parnasse’s fist with a cry.

 

Later, lying awake in the dark with Parnasse asleep at his side, Jehan feels something not entirely unlike dread settle deep in his stomach; too heavy to be just about the anticipated reprise of their argument. He thinks about the Christmas present already hidden at the bottom of the linen closet in the bathroom. He remembers feeling torn about going home for the holiday, but now the knowledge of his already paid for ticket fills him with relief. The break will do them good, Jehan tells himself, without believing it.

Montparnasse snuffles softly in his sleep and Jehan watches him frown into the patterned pillow for a moment. He resolves to sleep and pulls the comforter up over his shoulders, wonders if it can live up to its name. At least, Jehan muses sadly, he is not going to sleep angry.

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe I finally wrote a sex scene and it's a sad disappointing one. I'm so sorry. idek.  
> Do me a favour and pretend it's still December and I finished this in a timely fashion. Thank you for reading. Bless all ye commenters and kudos-leavers, for lifting my heart.  
> I'm on [tumblr](http://asongbirdandanoldhat.tumblr.com/), if you wanna say hello.


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